


Albatross

by Razzaroo



Category: Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Gen, Grief/Mourning, Post-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-20
Updated: 2021-02-20
Packaged: 2021-03-16 20:02:34
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,224
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29581368
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Razzaroo/pseuds/Razzaroo
Summary: After the Blight, Fergus Cousland returns to Highever.
Comments: 2
Kudos: 5





	Albatross

**Author's Note:**

> I'm not dead but the Couslands are, except for when they live rent-free in my head (which is all the time.)

It’s hard to face the prospect of going home. Fergus readies his horse himself because leaving it to the grooms and stableboys only feels like he’s trying to delay the inevitable; he is returning to Highever alone and his brother, his little brother who he’d only just found again, will have to stay behind in Denerim.

“I wish I was going with you.”

Ailill’s voice comes as a surprise and Fergus’s grip on his horse’s girth slips, the leather strap swinging downwards until it scrapes the ground. The horse only huffs and shifts, easing the weight off one hind leg.

“You’ll be all right,” Fergus says, reaching under the horse’s belly to pull the girth through again. He focusses on the buckles, fastening them in place, “You’re braver than you think.”

“ _Fergus,”_ Ailill says and his tone strikes something in Fergus’s core, so similar to how he’d sounded when he was a child and _needing,_ and Fergus turns. Ailill looks lost, worry written in the crease of his brow, “It’s my home too. I want to help.”

“You’ve done enough,” Fergus says, “Let me take care of Highever.” He smooths out Ailill’s cloak where it’s started to bunch over one shoulder. “When I have things back under control, I’ll send for you. I’m sure Anora will be able to let you go for a little while before you get married.”

Ailill pulls a face but steps aside as Fergus leads the horse out of the stable. He’ll be accompanied back to Highever by a contingent of royal guards, along with two standard bearers carrying the Cousland heraldry; with luck, their presence will signal to any of Arl Howe’s lingering supporters that opposing his return would risk the crown’s anger. The banners ripple in the wind, green on blue against the grey sky.

“It feels almost like bad luck now,” Ailill says, watching the banner, “After everything.” His mabari has joined him now, head butting against his hip, and one hand scratches behind Bran’s ears. “Or like it belongs to someone else.”

“It’s just been a long time,” Fergus says, “That’s all.”

The reassurance doesn’t manage to dislodge Ailill’s downcast expression. His hand has stilled on Bran’s head and the mabari whines, butting against Ailill’s hip for his attention and failing. Fergus lifts the reins over the horse’s head to keep them away from the animal’s feet so he could turn his attention back to his brother. Ignoring the watching guards, he pulls Ailill close, the way he should have done the day he left Highever. Ailill makes a small sound of surprise but he clings to Fergus, his hands digging into Fergus’s back, as if he’s trying to pack a year’s worth of lost affection into this moment.

It’s Ailill who steps back, straightens his shoulders, all the vulnerability from the stables now banished from his face. He combs one hand through the horse’s mane as Fergus mounts and he adjusts the animal’s girth again, tightening it ready for the journey.

“Who needs a squire when the Maker sends brothers?” Fergus says, trying one last time to get a smile out of Ailill before he goes. He manages but it’s brief and small.

“I’ll see you soon?” Ailill says. Bran is finally appeased as Ailill’s hand finds the sweet spot behind his ears again. Fergus leans in the saddle so he can smooth Ailill’s tousled hair, just as their mother would have.

“I’ll see you soon.”

* * *

The Highever that he returns to feels hollow. They approach from the east road, passing through villages that had avoided the Blight but not the civil war; many are burnt, others deserted. The Chantries still stand and provide shelter for those who hadn’t fled the fighting. Their procession is watched with wary eyes but the sight of the Cousland standard seems to raise some hopes.

“Yours now,” says one of the guards. Her voice has Highever’s northern accent, “They loved your father, to be sure.”

‘ _We have that in common.’_ Fergus’s hands tighten on the reins, drawing an irritated huff from his horse. He finds himself looking down at the road.

“Is it this bad everywhere?” he asks. The guard makes a humming sound.

“Any bannorn west of Highever Castle has coped better than elsewhere,” she says, “but so much between the castle and Amaranthine suffered. And winter is coming.”

Fergus takes a breath, lets it go.

“I’ll write to my uncle,” he says, “and ask him to turn Storm Coast’s fleets to bringing it what they can from the Free Marches. Ostwick has always been friendly with us.”

Out of the corner of his eye, he sees the guard nod but most of his attention is on the shape of Highever Castle on the horizon. He puts his heels to his horse’s sides and urges the animal into a canter, leaving his escort to catch up. He can no longer stifle the small part of him that’s longed for Highever, smothered for months under everything that has happened. His heart sings: _Mother! Father! I am coming home!_

The castle looms and Fergus draws his horse to a halt before the gates, loosening his hold on the reins. The drawbridge is down and the portcullis open wide; no voices call from the battlements and no torches burn at the door, no candles in the windows. He hears hoofbeats approaching behind him but there’s still nothing from the castle itself. He dismounts before any of the guards could even think to caution him and leads his horse over the drawbridge, keeping his free hand on the pommel of his sword.

Inside the walls, the castle remains silent and still. No flags top the towers and only frayed ropes remain as evidence of banners. The doors to the great hall are ajar and Fergus knots his horse’s reins to keep them from dragging before he approaches the hall, slowly making his way up the stone steps. Carefully, his sword half out its sheath now, he pushes one of the doors open fully.

He finds the hall completely empty. Much like the courtyard, there’s no pennants or banners upon the walls and the hearths are cold. The teyrn’s chair has been overturned and Fergus crosses the hall to stand it upright again, his hands lingering on the old carvings. He remembers, as a child, hiding behind this chair while his father conducted his court, avoiding his tutors and waiting for Bryce to have a moment spare for him…

“Ser?”

He looks to see his guards have followed him and stand waiting for orders. Beyond them, through the doors, he can see that they’ve closed the portcullis, keeping them in as much as it will keep anyone out.

“Search the castle,” he says, stepping down from the dais, “Go in pairs and if anyone stayed behind, bring them here.”

He waits until they disperse before he leaves the hall by one of the side doors. There are signs of battle but they’re old, scorch marks on the doors and hasty repairs carried out on the walls. He turns a corner before the path can lead him to the family’s private quarters, heading instead for the stone stairs that will take him up to the walls. Here, he can see for miles, an endless stretch of farm and forest to the south and the sea to the north. His father had known every stone of this castle, every step, every story of every ghost that had ever haunted the place.

‘ _And now there’s me,’_ he thinks. He rounds a corner and, out on the horizon, he can see rain gathering over the sea, ‘ _Now I’m the ghost of Highever Castle.’_

Around him, the wind sighs. The birds wail. Far away, at last, he hears the sea.

* * *

It doesn’t take long for the castle staff to begin returning; word of Fergus’s homecoming has spread and their curiosity is a lure. First, it’s the stablemaster, who’s followed by gardeners and the kitchen staff, then the chambermaids and the laundresses, with the armourer coming last. There are still many missing, those killed during Howe’s attack on the castle and those with no interest in coming back, but they share their stories, filling in the gaps about what had happened.

“Arl Howe never lived here,” one of the chambermaids says. She’s one of the few who goes into the castle’s family quarters and Fergus knows she never worked at the castle under his parents. “I never would have taken the job if he did. Some people think his daughter was meant to be lady here but whether she refused, or he just didn’t send her, she never came.”

If she’s noticed that he hasn’t entered his old chambers, that he opts to sleep in the guest quarters instead, she says nothing. She only curtsies and moves on.

“We knew things had gone sour when the garrison left,” says the head gardener. He snaps his fingers, “Just gone, one day, and we figured a tide had turned. The rest of us aren’t fighters so we returned home; we weren’t about die for a castle if someone with an army came for it.” He catches himself and bows his head, “Pardon, my lord.”

Finally, Fergus hears from the stablemaster, one of the few who’d served both the Couslands and Howe’s forces and Fergus remembers him well.

“I never had trouble from Howe or any of his ilk,” the stablemaster says, “Maybe they just didn’t want to find someone else to do what I do. Maybe it was luck.” He shrugs, “Or both. Still, I know they thought I could have made their lives easier.” He pauses and when he continues, his voice is heavy, “I found the right pony for your little lad. I’m sorry he never got to see him.”

Something hot constricts Fergus’s throat. He doesn’t want to talk about Oren, about all the things his son had wanted and never got to have.

“I’m sure he’d have loved it,” he manages to say, because he _knows_ this is sympathy and his mother would always insist on manners, even when they feel choking.

“Having been under both, I know which lord I’d choose to serve,” the stablemaster says, “If it’s not too bold to say.” He offers a shallow bow, “Welcome home, my lord.”

* * *

Highever comes to life again. The royal guard remains, as Anora hasn’t summoned them back yet, but they’re quickly joined by local soldiers and the garrison is soon filled. The stablemaster brings in grooms and stable hands, and the head gardener follows suit, his apprentices flitting about the castle gardens as bees do. Fergus finds himself near drowning as duties pile up; taxes, repairs and harvest plans all come to him and his father’s old office soon becomes his world. He feels utterly inadequate and fear of being found so swells up when he must face the banns.

‘ _Maybe Ailill should have come,’_ he thinks as he tries to get the pin of his cloak to lie flat on his shoulder, ‘ _to do this for me.’_

Oriana would have come to his rescue eventually, clucking her tongue and asking how he ever coped without her; he would have laughed and told her that he’d forget the cloak, the cold never bothered him anyway, and it would inevitably end up draped over her anyway—

He huffs and decides he looks as good as he ever will. The part of teyrn would never come as naturally to him as it did to his father or even to his brother, no matter how hard he’d tried, and if the lay of a cloak fastening is enough for the banns to find him wanting, they’re too fickle. He approaches the great hall straight-backed and proud but he falters at the door, taking a moment smooth out the imaginary folds in his doublet and adjust the fall of his cloak before he pushes the door open.

“The teyrn of Highever, Fergus Cousland!” the announcement comes almost immediately when he enters the hall and Fergus suppresses a wince when it’s _his_ name and not his father’s.

The banns have all crowded into the hall, a multicoloured patchwork of Ferelden’s northern nobility. They expect him to address them, to greet them, the way his father would have; he looks at them and suspicion lingers under his tongue. How many of them had known what Howe had planned and said nothing? How can he trust them not to do the same to him? He steels himself and bends in a shallow bow to the crowd.

“Thank you for coming,” he says, and he hopes no one notices or cares how stiff his tone is, “The Cousland family bids you welcome.”

There’s a ripple among the gathered banns, small and barely there but Fergus still notices. The Cousland name is all that commands respect now, since the actual family has been reduced to only two people, one of whom isn’t even in attendance. They’re propped up by the crown, their friends, and their extended family; Fergus has heard enough to know that few are willing to anger his aunt and uncles, with how they control the ports to the Waking Sea.

‘ _Let them talk,’_ he thinks as he takes his seat. He needs to convince himself as well as them, ‘ _I belong here. They’re the ones who are strange.’_

* * *

As the world settles back into an older rhythm, Fergus finds more moments of quiet. He can’t call it peace because trying to fit himself back into Highever makes him feel like his skin sits too tight and his soul stretched too thin; there’s simultaneously too much of him to fit back into old patterns and not enough. Highever asks for his mother’s voice and his father’s direction; it wants Oriana’s careful hands and Oren’s questions, the sound of Ailill’s arrows in the courtyard. It wants the man Fergus had been and not the man he’s become, with the scars on his back and a heart that aches in the night.

Eventually, he goes to the Chantry, bypassing the chapel at Highever Castle because it feels too small for whatever his soul needs. The cathedral is a grand affair, with high arching ceilings, towering columns and stained glass that cast the congregation in rainbow light. It was here that Fergus had married Oriana, where his parents had married, where generations of Cousland children had been brought under the watchful eye of the Maker.

There’s a smaller chapel here dedicated to Elethea Cousland and that’s where Fergus heads, hoping for a level of privacy that the nave can’t offer.

“Wait here,” he says to his guards, “I just want a moment.”

They take up posts on either side of the doorway and Fergus enters the chapel. It’s deserted, thought there are a handful of candles lit, wax dripping down to the stone floor. One end of the chapel is dominated by a statue of Andraste, carved out of white stone, her hands clasped and her expression benevolent despite the flames engulfing her feet; at the other end, there’s a stained glass window depicting Elethea herself, kneeling before a silver knight, the rays of the Chantry’s sunburst framing her head like a halo. Both women feel foreign to him, despite their stories being the first he’d ever heard, but Elethea at least shares his name.

He lights a candle at the small shrine beneath the window and kneels. He remembers with sudden perfect clarity being eleven years old, kneeling with his mother while she prayed for patience as Ailill learnt to crawl at Andraste’s feet. His breath snags and it’s Elethea who grounds him. Behind him, he hears a whisper of skirts, the sound of soft shoes against the stone floor, but he doesn’t turn.

“My lord,” the Chantry sister says and even her voice is soft, “Would you like me to pray with you?”

“If you’d like.”

She kneels beside him, her robe almost aglow in the candlelight, and the smell of incense that clings to her sticks at the back of Fergus’s throat.

“If I might ask, what brings you here today?”

Fergus looks up at Elethea, wonders if she’d had to try and cram herself into a role after so much had changed.

“I’m just looking for peace,” he says. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees the sister nod.

“Many have come here looking for peace,” she says, “Chantries around Ferelden have been filled with pleas for it. Thank the Maker for your own brother for setting us on the right path.”

“He shouldn’t have had to,” Fergus says. He thinks of Loghain and the war he started; he thinks of Howe and the horrors he’d caused; he thinks of the Maker, who let it all happen.

“No,” the Chantry sister says, “but he did and that is to be praised.” She clasps her hands, “Shall we pray, my lord?”

He follows her lead, as he had his mother’s so long ago, but his thoughts are with his brother. He’s heard little from Denerim since he left but he remembers his promise. It’s time he brought Ailill home.

* * *

Ailill’s arrival at Highever is a subdued affair. The retinue accompanying him is threadbare despite his status as the queen’s betrothed; Fergus suspected the guards were formality, more for show than for protection as Ailill’s reputation preceded him. Ailill himself wastes no time standing on ceremony and formality, swinging down from his horse and into Fergus’s arms as soon as he came to a halt in the courtyard.

“Was Denerim so bad?” Fergus asks, steadying his brother’s weight.

“I’ve slept in worst places, and left Bran in worse company than Anora’s,” Ailill says. He steps back from Fergus, though he stays within arm’s reach, and looks at the castle, “It looks bigger than I remember.”

He looks contemplative and sad but at least he’s managed to shed the lost look he’d had in Denerim. Fergus hopes it’s a sign that he’s settling in, that Anora’s given him the time and space to find his feet again, but now isn’t the time to ask.

“Everything looks bigger when you’re used to tents,” Fergus says, “Even the smallest peasant hut.”

“Maybe.” Ailill turns to his guards, “Take the horses to the stables and then get some rest. I’ll be all right with Fergus.”

He waits until they’ve gone before he looks at Fergus again, “Walk with me?”

Ailill’s choice of route takes them out of the castle grounds and along the coastal path, winding down the cliffs to the pebbled beach. It had been a staple of Fergus’s life from before, somewhere he had always come when he needed time alone. Had they kept to the clifftops, they would have been able to see pillars of stone towering out above the waves, markers of where the cliffs had once reached; Fergus remembers telling Oren that they were giants’ teeth, something Oren hadn’t believed because he didn’t think giants were real.

“How is wedding planning going?” Fergus asks, determined not to think about his son, “I heard you’ve picked a date.”

“ _Anora’s_ picked a date,” Ailill says, “She wants the spring. My input isn’t really asked for; I think people don’t know what to do with me.” He rolls a pebble into the waves, “I don’t know what to do with me sometimes.”

“I can find you some things to do. Read some of the petitions for my attention. Hunt some deer for my high table. Sit in the hall and be worshipped.”

“I’ve had enough of worship but I can manage hunting for you. I’ve missed the forest.” Ailill hesitates for a moment, “I was worried about you.”

“Me?” Fergus laughs, “Why would you need to worry about me?”

Ailill stops and looks back. From here, they can see Highever Castle, ghostly grey in the sea mist.

“I thought you’d be lonely,” Ailill says, “And I didn’t know what you’d find here.”

“I’m fine,” Fergus says. It’s easier than saying that he’d found nothing here, only an empty castle and no peace, nothing to quiet whatever unsettled creature has inhabited his skin, “Really.”

Ailill looks doubtful but he doesn’t push, saving it for another time. And there will be another time, whether it comes tomorrow or a month from now. Fergus can’t say that his answer will be the same but Ailill can hope that it will be honest.

* * *

“Do you think Nathaniel knows?”

The question comes late at night when the rest of the castle is asleep. They’re sharing a bottle of mead, the crest of Rainesfere imprinted in the glass at the base of the bottle, in front of the fire. Outside, the world is still, but the curdling clouds and the low ache Fergus can feel in his back tell of rain.

“Do I think Nathaniel knows what?”

“About Thomas.” Ailill pulls a face, “And his father, I suppose.”

Fergus leans forward and picks up the bottle, refills his glass, “Why are you thinking about this?”

“I don’t know. We were friends once. Nathaniel even came back for your wedding.”

“ _I know.”_ The words come out between clenched teeth, more venomous than Fergus intended. Ailill looks taken aback and Fergus quickly takes a drink, the sweet taste washing his words back from behind his teeth, “I know. If Nathaniel doesn’t know about his father, he’s better off. His brother died fighting the blight and his bones were returned to his mother. That’s all he _needs_ to know.”

He hasn’t given Nathaniel any thought; he hasn’t wanted to, nor does he truly want to know why Ailill’s been dwelling. Of the two of them, he thinks Nathaniel might have been dealt the better hand, sheltered by the Free Marches and blessed ignorance.

“The maids told me you haven’t even gone near your old quarters,” Ailill says, pulling his chair closer, “Is that true?”

Fergus drains his glass. He doesn’t want to admit it in front of Ailill, not when he’s not the one who had to witness everything that happened, but the thought of stepping foot in there again digs a pit in his stomach and keeps going.

“I haven’t needed to,” he says, half the truth.

“I think you should,” Ailill says. He looks down into the fire, traces a circle on the wood of the table in front of him, “One day.”

“Why?”

“Because you can’t avoid it forever. And I think there’s something in you that needs lancing.” Ailill looks back up at him, “I know there was in me.”

* * *

When the day comes for him to reckon with the long hand of the past, Fergus makes sure that he’s left alone. He bars the castle staff from entering; he tells the guards to redirect their patrols. He doesn’t even tell Ailill what he’s doing, wanting to avoid placing that burden on his brother’s shoulders.

The lock clicks and he pushes the door open, wincing as its hinges moan. He steps through, his heart in his throat while the wind picks up, howling around the castle towers, whistling through the windows and making the heavy door swing.

Once the door’s closed behind him, there’s an eerie silence to the tower and the air feels stale and heavy. The stone floors have been left bare and the wall hangings are long gone, with nothing left now to keep out the chill. Fergus approaches the place where his mother’s portrait had been; the stone wall is cold beneath his fingers and he recoils, flinching back from the empty space like it had bitten him. Something long buried stirs in his chest, rising into his throat to try and choke him. The absence of his parents lingers like a ghost, clutching at him with cold hands. Beyond the door, he can see their chambers have been ransacked, chests and wardrobes broken, the bedframe empty. Quickly, he steps away, unwilling to be drawn in, to allow that emptiness to choke him, and turns his attention to his own quarters.

There’s a deep cleft in the door, the result of either an axe or a sword blow, and the latch hangs broken. He gathers his courage and pushes the door open.

The room he finds is empty. The splinters on the floor are all that remains of the lives once lived here. All traces of Oriana, from her small Antivan painted idols of Andraste to the shawls she’d wrapped herself in against the cold, have been snuffed out and whatever presence Oren had been carving out in Highever has long since crumbled. It feels like they’re more than just gone; it’s like they never existed at all.

Something breaks.

He cannot stay here.

Abruptly, he leaves, the door slamming shut in his wake. The castle walls, once sheltering and protecting, loom smothering and cold. Someone says his name, but he ignores them; he’s eager to be gone, to go where he can claw out this ache that’s taken root and grown up in his chest.

His feet carry him back to the beach, back to that rushing tide and grey endlessness. He only makes it so far before he must stop, choking on a sob, curling in on himself; the scar in his belly aches, as if his grief is trying to rend it open again, just as it has itself been opened. He’s been pressing it all down, denying his loss even as he tries to find his family in every place he’s looked, searching for traces of them as if he can capture their shades and breathe life back into them by filling the gaps they’d left behind.

“I’m still here!” he cries, calling out across the sea, as if the waves will carry them to the ears of the dead. The ache in his belly sinks deeper, swells up until it crowds his chest and his throat. His breath catches on a sob, “I’m _still here!”_

The sea offers him nothing in return, only salt on his tongue and water rising to lap at his boots, but so long as he stands on the shore, he can at least pretend the dampness on his face is from spray…

“Fergus.”

Ailill speaks and Fergus hadn’t even heard him approach. He’s dressed plainly, in only his shirt and breeches with no protection against the wind and cold. He reaches for Fergus and Fergus goes to him, wrapping his arms around Ailill and burying his face in his brother’s shoulder.

“I’m sorry,” he chokes out. He holds Ailill tighter, as if he can hide from his grief in his brother’s frame, “ _I’m sorry.”_

The reasons for apologies tumble over in his head: _I’m sorry for not being here when it happened; I’m sorry I lived and they didn’t; I’m sorry you have to pick up the pieces again._ The words come out thick, muffled, and Ailill rocks under the weight of them.

“It’s all right,” he says. He holds Fergus together, anchors him so the sea can’t wash him away, “It’s why the Maker sends brothers.”

* * *

The wound is lanced but it only makes his grief bleed out of him and into everything else. It smudges his ink, makes his letters shaky; it seeps into his dreams, half-memory and half-imagination, and leaves him exhausted; it hollows him out when he holds court and his nobles notice. Months of chasing and reality has finally closed its jaws around him. He can no longer pretend to live untouched.

The week before Ailill is meant to return to Denerim, he takes control. He replies to the letters, his handwriting still so neat even after a year of living wild, and all Fergus needs to do is set his signature and seal to the vellum. He oversees the court while Fergus tries to catch up on sleep; the excuse he gives is that Fergus has been ill and is recovering. Half-truths used to shield, delivered with Ailill’s smile and manners that make it difficult to refuse him.

“I’m practicing,” he says after the day has drawn to a close, seating himself on Fergus’s desk. “Anora should be impressed.”

“You’re stronger than I am,” Fergus says. He hasn’t seen the things Ailill’s seen or had to do what had been asked of his brother, and he’s crumbled so easily. “I’m proud of you.”

“Not stronger,” Ailill says, gently, always gentle, “I’ve just had time.” He sighs and looks at his hands, “I wish I could stay and give _you_ time, but I promised Anora I’d be back before the season turns.”

“You’ve given me time. You’ve been busy and I’ve done more than just sleep.” Fergus straightens a report on his desk, “Go back to Denerim and don’t worry about me. I’ll survive. Our family always does our duty.”

“You sound like Father,” Ailill says, and though there’s a faint smile on his face, it’s tinged with sadness, “I miss him.”

Fergus hesitates, half expecting the burn in his eyes and the lump in his throat, but tonight they don’t come. Still, his response is a whisper.

“Me too.”

* * *

When Ailill leaves, he looks back. Fergus stands at the gates, waiting alone, until Ailill and his escort have vanished from sight. When his brother is gone, out of his reach again, he turns back to the castle. Highever enfolds him, still feeling less like home and more like the fortress it is to outsiders; the gaps are still there but Fergus realises now that they are in _him_ and that he can’t fill them, that the threads of his old life are best left where they lie until he’s ready to knot them to new ones.

He makes his way through the castle, nodding to the staff he passes, offering some assurance to them that their teyrn is recovered and with them again. His feet carry him to the old quarters; others have been here since he’d entered, to clean and make repairs, replacing the carpets and wall hangings. He doesn’t go in, not yet, but his fingers trace the whorls in the wood of the door. When he’s ready, he’ll return again, this time to face his future rather than the past.

He thinks about his brother, on his way back to Denerim. The next time they see each other, Ailill will be wedded and crowned, a prince to Ferelden as well as its hero. The least Fergus can do to match him is to try and heal, to be the man he needs to be rather the man he was _supposed_ to be. There’s no Bryce Cousland to teach him now, no Eleanor to nurture him; there’s no Oren to guide and no Oriana to sing into the night. He and Ailill are the last ones of their kind.

He leaves the door and makes his way to one of the castle towers, climbing the narrow staircase until it opens up to the sky. Overhead, the sky is pale blue and the wind blows cold against his face. The air smells of salt and sea and winter.

‘ _I’m home,’_ he thinks, telling the castle as much as he’s telling himself. His fingers dig into the stone of the battlements, bitingly cold in this wind, ‘ _I’m home.’_ He lifts his face to the wind, ‘ _Highever. I’m **home.**_ ’


End file.
